Shall I tell you about the warm, fur lined boots I wore in winters few? They were nice and comfy and picked up cheap to face my first snow, but I couldn’t walk comfortably in them. They sure saw a lot of the wall behind the shoe closet. Or shall I tell you about the casual slipons I picked up for even cheaper, but who stayed with me miles? They covered a lot of ground, and I with them. Or how about the stilettos I daringly bought, doubting I’d wear them at all, but I did, inspite of the sharp click clack of every step on the uncarpeted office floor? And the shiny golden sparkly low heels, meant to be worn for festivities, picked up because inside every sensible woman resides a little girl who loves all the fancy glitter?

Do you want to hear about the annual pair of functional, no nonsense ‘rainy wear’ that’s a must for every Indian monsoon; it doesn’t throw up mud, you know? And the numerous other non monsoon pairs, utilitarian and plebian? Why? Only because they help a girl run and catch a bus to the places she’s going. Do you want to know about my first pair of adult sneakers, still languishing in a closet somewhere? I never could throw them out; is it because we have memories together, them and me, of traipsing in foreign places, collecting odd dirt and flotsam on the way?

Can I cuss the formal black pair that fell apart on me in a strange country where no one else seemed to wear my shoe size? Oh the superglue that I depended on for long! Or those wonderful looking sandals that turned traitor the moment they came home with me, and gave the worst case of shoe bite in the history of all shoeland? Or those delicate strappy things that always look so good but should come with a warning “Do not walk with these on, you’re sure to break something.”

Or how about we speak of the countless other pairs that are not mine, yet? They lie on the shop shelves, waiting for me to journey with them, to places we have both never been yet.

Written for the daily post’s prompt: These boots were made for walking.

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